Wonderland
by stripeypirate
Summary: After Jess' death, Sam falls down the rabbit hole. Season 1 AU in which he turns to heroin instead of hunting.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Wow, it's been a while since I've uploaded! I've actually been sitting on this idea for about a year, though I've only recently gotten around to making any significant progress on the story. Next few chapters have already been written. Hope you enjoy :)**

**Warning- Drug abuse**

* * *

Sam scrubbed at his face, feeling the stippled dots imprinted there during the night. Sunlight drilled through his half-closed eyes.

_What time is it?_

The digital clock sitting haphazardly on the nightstand fuzzed in and out of his vision. With a grunt, Sam peeled himself off the floor, his nostrils filling with the scent of moldy motel carpet.

_What day is it?_

His lips were beginning to crack and that burning ache in his stomach might have been hunger. The last thing he remembered was watching the neon red "VACANCY" sign flicker against a charcoal sky.

His limbs felt heavy, stuffed with sand. A loud pounding on the door joint the one in his head, indicating that he'd overstayed his welcome.

"Gimme a minute! 'M about to check out!" Sam hollered as he stumbled to the bathroom to splash a little water on his face. His reflection stared back at him, an angry red patch on his cheek from the carpet. _I can shower in the next town. _A few greasy strands of hair clung to his forehead. _It's getting so long. Haven't cut it since…_

Sam quickly turned away, avoiding the mirror. He snatched a half-dried shirt from the towel rack, yanking the sleeves down so they covered the track marks that raced down his arms like lightning bolts.

_Just need to get out of here. It'll be alright once I get my bearings. _He moved back to the bedroom, shoving his belongings indiscriminately into a duffle that was patched many times over with duct tape.

_Just need a hit, I'll be good. _Nausea was already starting to curl in his stomach like a cat.

Sam shoved the door open, shuffling out under the baleful eye of the motel owner. _He knows I can feel it, probably gets people like this all the time. Stinking junkies getting high in the bathtub and pissing on the beds. Gonna call the cops on me buddy? Search my room after I leave?_

He shoved his last fifty bucks into the man's soft, sweaty hand. _I bet you make a tidy profit, you fat bastard. _

His beat-up Dodge pickup was waiting for him in the lot. Sam made a mental note to change cars as soon as he got settled. He'd had this one almost a month now; couldn't risk getting ID'd. _By the fuzz or Dean. Not that he'd still be looking for my sorry ass anyway. _

Sam wiped away the sweat that was beginning to trickle down the back of his neck. His skin was starting to stretch tight and cramps were beginning to shoot down his legs in tiny bursts of electricity. It was going to be a long drive to the next Nowhereville USA.

* * *

Setting up shop in a new town was never hard. After all, his transient lifestyle as a hunter was the perfect enabler. He could just roll in, case a couple houses, play a little pool and then spend the next few days high off his ass in some no-name motel. If anyone got suspicious or the money ran out, he could leave without a trace. Sure, it was a pain to establish new connections every time, but he had the gaunt, jittery look dealers tended to recognize.

This particular speck on the map had the dusty, worn-down feel of a place that subsisted off the interstate. A haven for truckers and travelers who were so weary they didn't really care where they laid their heads for the night. Plenty of dingy diners and one sad-looking strip club, complete with hookers with saggy tits and smoker's coughs.

Sam made a beeline for the club, its sign flickering spastically like a tired, neon strobe light. The inside smelled faintly of cheap beer, cigarettes, and desperation. A dancer was grinding halfheartedly against a pole in front of a small group huddled around the stage. He strode over to the bartender, carefully arranging a friendly grin on his face. The corners of his mouth ached at the effort, as if he was stretching a too-tight canvas over a frame.

_Jess loved to paint. _

Sam forced the smile up to his eyes. _Your facial expression, body language, everything has to match. _Dad had drilled that into them well enough. _You need to be able to look people in the eye and lie through your teeth and they have to believe you. Otherwise you'll wind up dead or in jail. _He wore the grin like a second skin, hoping that one of these days he could believe it himself.

The bartender gave him a guarded once-over before grunting, "New in town?"

"Is it that obvious?" Sam chuckled and casually slapped a five on the bar. "A beer, please."

"Not many people live 'round these parts. I even know most of the truckers who pass through by now." He turned his hefty bulk around with some difficulty in the small space, and handed Sam a bottle.

"Thanks. Say, you wouldn't happen to know where I could go to have a good time around here? I mean, the girls are great and all," he gestured towards the stage, "but I'm looking for something a little more… exiting."

The bartender raised a puffy, grey eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

"Who do the truckers usually ask for?" Sam murmured, placing a crumpled twenty into the man's fist.

* * *

The man at the front desk of Morty's Motor Paradise didn't even raise an eyebrow when Sam stumbled in, hollow-eyed and panting as he slid a wad of cash across the counter. _Perfect. _

He snatched the key with trembling fingers and forced himself not to sprint to the room with his prize. In no time at all, he was set up on the floor beside the bed; his entire body humming with anticipation.

Yep, Sam Winchester was living in an addict's paradise. No roots, no worries.

_You tried though, didn't you?_ said that niggling little voice in his head. The one he constantly tried to drown out with the roar of sensation, of nerve endings tingling, on fire with bliss tearing through his body like a rocket.

_Jessica. Sweet, smart, beautiful, naïve Jessica. She had no idea what was out there, just a walking, talking snack for whatever-the-fuck roasted her on the ceiling. Maybe if you'd been honest…_

Sam tightened his grip on the spoon, watching its precious contents slowly melt over an open flame.

_What would Dean say if he could see you now?_

The voice yammered on over the familiar, comforting motions of tying off a tourniquet. His skin was stretched taut, hairs standing at attention with excitement. His arm was still useable, for the time being. Sam was careful to rotate sites when he shot up. The educated junkie.

_What about Dad?_

Sam depressed the plunger quickly and his head filled with numbing static, growing heavy as a lead balloon.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_**Sorry about the short chapter. This one's a bit of a bridge between the intro and the action. We'll see the plot appear in the next chapter, I promise! In the meantime, have some angsty Sam.

* * *

_You don't look so good, baby. _A soft whisper tickled the back of his neck, like a warm breeze on a summer evening.

"Jess," he breathed. The name held magic, summoning forth a flood of memories and sensations that swirled in a kaleidoscope before him. Soft hands, vanilla chapstick he could taste, lips dragging across teeth, laughter.

She was so real he could feel tears well in his eyes.

"'M so sorry. Shoulda protected you."

_Is that why you're doing this to yourself?_ The weight of a hand against his chest.

"You shouldn't be here," he managed to grit out, his eyes squeezed studiously shut because he _knew _she wasn't wrapped around his shoulders, head resting against his cheek. If he focused hard enough, he could smell a faint whiff of her shampoo; the floral kind that he always teased her about until she made him try it and his hair was softer than silk.

_Neither should you. _Her voice was getting fainter, breaking apart like a dandelion in the wind.

"Wait, don't go!"

Sam lurched to his feet, pins and needles running up and down his legs. There was a tunnel now, where the door used to be- a great black vortex that swallowed Jess and was waiting hungrily for him.

He staggered toward it, fingers grasping for her hair, a piece of cloth, anything.

_Stay. _

_Please._

* * *

_Coffee. _

The harsh, burnt smell assaulted Sam's nostrils. The scent of productivity; of early-morning classes and late-night study sessions, not to mention a pre-hunt pick-me-up. He wanted to gag.

Sam blinked slowly, searching for a spark of bliss still left in his veins. Something that would open up that empty space between sleeping and wakefulness, but he was all dried out.

He could feel his head pressing uncomfortably against the doorjamb. Sam considered sitting up but decided to stare up at a mysterious brown spot on the ceiling instead. The spot stared back accusatorily.

_Dried up, dried out, used up, waste of space. _

"Shut up," he growled aloud to the empty room. His tongue clacked stickily against the roof of his mouth, the words tripping out clumsy and garbled.

_Who's making the damned coffee anyways? _

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 6:30am. _Probably some guy on a business trip, struggling with his tie in the mirror as he got ready for a meeting, maybe thinking about the wife and kids back home…_

"Shut up," Sam muttered again, heaving himself off the floor.

He needed some quick cash. Once upon a time, _he'd_ been the one whining about credit card fraud and hustling pool. For a few months when he was sixteen, Sam had stubbornly clung to his job delivering pizzas, ignoring Dean's taunts about how he made twice as much money in a night as Sam did in a week. Even though it was true. _Especially because it was true._

Now it was time to put his hard-earned lock picking skills to use. His hands fumbled in the dark for a glass of water.

Eight years ago he'd have been stumbling back from a hunt, whining about moving again. Worried about Fitting In and Making Dad Happy, Keeping Their Secret.

Eight months ago he'd have still been asleep, his arm wrapped around Jess' soft frame. Worried about Law School and Classes, Pretending to be Normal.

Eight days ago he'd have been crouched over a toilet, praying to die. Worried about The Next Hit.

Sam cursed as his toe collided with the syringe, sending it skittering across the floor. He grudgingly flicked the light on, pretending he didn't see the roaches scuttle for cover. The glass in his hand was trembling slightly, the water slopping over the sides and down to the floor.

The syringe was unbroken, the needle unbent. There was even a little smack left clinging to the sides. _Perfect._ The dealer the strip club bartender had sent him to dealt mostly in amphetamines; the drug of choice for the men driving long hours on endless, boring stretches of road, but like any good salesman, he had a stash for the rarer and slightly wealthier heroin crowd. Sam now had enough to last a week and a half, maybe two if he was careful. He contemplated leaving right then, get set up in a new town _before_ the cravings hit, maybe find a job as a bouncer, something that would grant him easy access to the party scene where dealers were a dime a dozen. But Jessica's ghost was still clinging to him from last night.

_She came from a small town. Maybe she even walked past places like this on her way to school. Places her mom told her to stay away from, because Bad People stayed there. She wanted to get out so bad, see the world. I should've told her what might have been looking back. _

A slightly faded newspaper, left by some other visitor, lay sprawled on the table. It announced the brutal murder of a prostitute, trumpeting Another in a String of Killings, with lurid photographs of dead; staring eyes and bloody handprints. Normally this would have peaked Sam's interest, sent him running to the library, and out into the neighborhood for witnesses; but now the baggie in his coat pocket called to him with a far greater strength. Potential hunts were no longer his problem. He settled down onto the bed and closed his eyes, fingering the syringe with its last precious drops.

_This is the new normal. _


	3. Chapter 3

When Sam awoke again, the clock was blinking 3:21 and sunlight was slanting in through the curtains.

_Time to get to work. _

He still had a few hours before people began returning from their cushy jobs at the office, especially since this little turnpike town would require a long commute. Shaking his head to clear the last sticky tendrils of drug-induced warmth, Sam slipped into an innocuous white muscle shirt and jeans. If anyone in the neighborhood saw him, they'd probably assume he was a handyman of some sort.

The sharp spring air did more to wake Sam up then the coffee that was sloshing around in his empty stomach. He shoved his hands in his pocket and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension from them. Walking meant that canvassing would take longer, but also removed the chance his license plate would be spotted.

A few blocks from the hotel, he hit the jackpot. A row of houses stared at him like empty eyes. Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down.

_Rushing'll just get you caught. Check for alarms, dogs, little kids, anything that'll make noise. Find a door that isn't dead-bolted. If you play it smart, you'll be skipping town before they even realize you're gone. _

He saw a likely candidate; a run-down bungalow at the end of the block. Weeds choked the lawn and overgrown bushes partially obscured the low-set windows. Most importantly, the house was dark and the driveway was empty.

Still, Sam listened at the door, checking over his shoulder as he did so to ensure that the streets stayed clear. Satisfied that the house was silent, he slipped a lockpick out of his pocket. Within moments, he was inside.

The mudroom smelled faintly mildewed, with a strong overtone of cat. A faded floral apron hung on a peg, with a pair of well-worn, dusty boots underneath it.

_Great. I'm probably robbing some old lady. Good job, Sammy. _

For a moment, he considered backing out; picking a different place that wouldn't make him feel quite so sick inside, but his instincts told him that was too risky.

_If the neighbors notice me wandering around the block, it'll be all over. One house and done, that's the way it's gotta be. _

Plus that constant, inner hunger would not let him pass up such an easy opportunity for cash.

_I'm sorry, Jess,_ he thought as he stepped cautiously over the threshold into what looked like a living room. Pictures hung in silvery frames on the wall. Babies in frilly outfits grew into gap-toothed kids, and from there morphed into beaming graduates and proud parents.

_So this is it, huh? The life Jess never lived to see. The life I'll never have now because I'm a useless fucking junkie without a future- _

Sam felt an irrational surge of anger shoot through him; so sudden and visceral that before he knew it, he was gripping one of the portraits in his hands. Sam took a shaky breath and forced himself to step back before he tore it from the wall.

_No time for this. I'm just doing what I have to, to survive . _

The rest of the living room seemed empty of any actual value. Save for and ornamental tea set that might have gold inlay, most available surfaces were cluttered with tiny china figurines. Sam turned the angel ones around because something about them gave him the creeps.

"No clowns, at least," he muttered to himself sarcastically.

The kitchen proved a bit more successful, with a few silver plates, burnished to a fine sheen.

_Look at how well she took care of those. _His conscience had recovered and was now wheedling through the cracks in the wall Sam had built around it. _The rest of the house is dusty and threadbare but the plates look brand new. I wonder if they were a wedding gift?_

"Shut up!" Sam cried out, a little too loudly. He stood stock-still at the foot of the stairwell, listening to his own ragged breathing as the old place creaked and settled around him. Clearly no one was home, but Sam couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him, sending trails of sweat pricking down the back of his neck.

_Lose the paranoia and get out of here_, he told himself, as he edged up the narrow flight of stairs. From what he'd learned about layouts in his newfound criminal stint (as well as an architecture course or two he'd taken for fun at Stanford), the second floor of this house would be small due to the sloping roofs of the bungalow style; possibly only storage space.

Halfway up, Sam caught a pungent whiff that was all-too-familiar.

_Oh God no. _

He knew he should get the hell out as fast as he could, collect his belongings at the motel, and beat it, on the off chance that _anyone _who had seen his face connected him to the incident. But a terrible curiosity compelled him onwards, the smell getting more and more cloying with each step. The smell hunters learned to recognize above all else, not that one could forget it easily- Sam had tried.

It wasn't the messiest Sam had ever encountered, but it was pretty damn bad.

An old woman lay spread-eagle on her bed, her fragile hair spread about her face like a dandelion. The sheets underneath her were red, red, with the occasional wet glistening of viscera breaking up the patchwork.

_ohfuckshit I'm gonna have to wipe down every goddamn surface in this place and even then they're gonna find something that'll link back to me, so really I should just leave as fast as I can before anyone finds the body maybe she was a loner and I'll have a few days' headstart, fuck!_

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head like he wanted to rip it out by the roots. Nervous energy sparked and faded sporadically throughout his body, making him twitch.

_Once I put this town in my rearview mirror, I can just take a huge hit and forget. _

_Because that worked so well with Jess, _his conscience whispered.

There was a knock at the door.

* * *

Sam inched his way down the stairs, sweat now running in tiny rivulets along his hairline. He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. On the last step, he peeked around the wall; he had a clear shot of the front door through the living room, straight across to his left. He could see the outline of a figure, probably male judging by the height, through the artfully distorted glass cut-out at the top of the door.

_Police! _Sam's insides froze. _Someone must've noticed she was missing for a few days, now they're coming to check. _

The knock sounded again, more insistent.

"Mrs. Carruthers?"

_Shit. _Sam ducked to the right, into the cramped kitchen. _She's gotta have a back exit. _

"Mrs. Carruthers?" A rattle. "The door's unlocked. I'm coming in."

His breath was coming hard and fast, almost panting. He scrabbled with the chain on the backdoor, praying he could get out before the cop saw enough to ID him. With a slight bang, he threw open the door and sprinted out to the sidewalk, just as the first heavy footfalls entered the house. He paused for a moment, resting his hands on his knees like an afternoon jogger taking a break.

_A jogger in jeans and boots. _

Sam turned, preparing to make the hastiest nonchalant exit he could manage, but was stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth dried instantly, and for a second he thought he might laugh out loud, high and hysterical because _how the fuck could my life get any worse?_

A 1967 Chevrolet Impala sat crouched at the curb outside the late Mrs. Carruthers' abode.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam could barely get the door to his room open; such was the roaring _need _flailing about in his skull. He itched all over, like he was a human puppet; strings running underneath his skin that a sadistic Master couldn't stop tugging.

Sam's hands fumbled for the baggie, his fingers barely steady enough to hold a lighter.

_Jesus fuck he's here. I should pack, skip town, let him go on doing whatever fucked up job he's on. It'll keep him sane. _

His heart was jackhammering in his chest.

_One hit to calm down. One big motherfucking hit. _

The lighter still wouldn't cooperate so Sam threw it down in disgust, opting for the shorter but simpler method of snorting.

_I can take a real shot once my hands're steady. _

Already he could feel a warmth emanating from his chest. The same feeling he'd get when Dean smiled at him, or in the rare moments when his father praised him.

Sam caressed his belt, preparing the next dose before this one wore off.

_All the time in the world. _

* * *

Surely the room was the same as he'd left it; he'd only been gone a few hours, yet somehow the furniture had morphed, distorted by memories. By _Dean._

This rug belonged in a run-down bed and breakfast in Minnesota where he'd learned to ride a bike. The coffee pot was one Dad broke throwing at a wall somewhere along the border between Texas and New Mexico.

Sam's limbs were leaden, his eyelids drooping against his will. His vision felt grayish and strange like he was watching a black and white TV that was full of static snow.

_Just like during that storm… _

He was tucked underneath a bed that suddenly belonged to Pastor Jim. They were hiding because they'd shattered a window playing baseball. Dean was bringing a finger up to his lips, footsteps growing closer.

_Quiet, Sammy. _

_I'm sorry Dean, I don't want to do this anymore. _

A hand was shaking his shoulder but for some reason he couldn't see.

_Did you glue my eyelids together?_

Breathing was so much effort. He should just become a fish. Even now he was floating on a comforting sea, black waves lapping across his chest.

* * *

A white light seared into his brain.

_Too bright for Heaven, gotta be in Hell_, he thought around the throbbing in his head. The air tasted tinny and artificial, like he was breathing through a balloon.

Sam forced his eyelids open to reveal the white starchiness of a hospital room. A familiar sandy head was slumped over in a chair next to him, as if they'd just been patched up after a hunt gone bad.

_Yep, definitely Hell. _

He was trying to figure out a way to silently disconnect his heart rate monitor when Dean stirred.

"Going somewhere?" There was a harshness in his voice that belied the deep purple circles under his eyes, the cracks around his lips.

Sam pursed his lips and fell back against the pillows.

"I mean, you disappear for eight months. Then I find you in some random town; maybe you were working the same job as I was but no, you're cracked out in some roach motel. What the hell, Sammy?" A dark flush of anger was creeping up into his brother's cheeks.

"I've been driving myself _crazy _looking for you. Thought maybe it was something to do with the demon. God I haven't had a decent night's sleep since…" he trailed off.

_That makes two of us, then. _Sam refused to comment, instead picking stubbornly at the tape around his IV line.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Dean demanded, snatching Sam's hand away, forcing him to look him in the eye.

"Where's Dad?" _A challenge. _

Now it was his brother's turn to avoid eye contact, though Sam could read grief in his face before he turned away.

Sam forced a chuckle.

"Let me guess; he's got a _really good _lead this time and hell, he probably wishes he could be here only he hasn't answered any of your calls in the past week so who knows. Besides, I'm the Bad Son, remember?" The bitterness in his voice was hot and thick as lava. "Even before I started shooting up."

Dean spun back towards him, his face a blank, ugly mask.

"You done?"

Sam just fixed him with an insolent stare, pursing his lips stubbornly.

"He's dead, Sammy. Happy now?" He shivered, like each utterance of the phrase made it a little more true. The beaten, broken in leather jacket suddenly seemed too big for his shoulders as he slouched over to the window to pretend to look out at the parking lot.

Sam's mouth fell open in a rare moment in which his brain went white and all electrical activity in his tongue stopped.

"Yeah that's what I thought," Dean muttered without turning to face him.

"How?" The younger Winchester felt as if he'd suddenly been transported to the top of Mount Everest; the air too thin and cold, squirming inside his lungs.

"Demon, probably. Spent most of my time looking for you after the fire. Figured he'd call if needed me, but I kept my eyes open just the same. Then I got a call from this Ellen Harvelle lady, and yeah… Long story short, he's gone." He rubbed the side of his jaw absentmindedly with his thumb, voice dangerously close to breaking. "Christ, I thought I'd lost you both."

Sam closed his eyes. The pull of the drug long gone, he felt himself begin to drift away from the conversation and into the sharper areas of need.

_One hit and this would all go away. _

His head was aching faintly around the temples, Dean's voice droning on in the background.

_Mom, Jess, now Dad... Why didn't it come for me? I was alone, defenseless, completely incapable of fighting back. Maybe that's what it wants, to play with us. Make us suffer before the end. _

"Are you even listening?"

Sam's eyes snapped open with a disconcerting jolt of anger that he was quick to bury in neutral apathy once he saw his brother squinting at him.

"Yeah. Dean look, I'm so sorry-"

"Cut the crap. We're busting you outta here and we're hitting the road."

"What?" He couldn't help a look of dumb surprise sneak past his façade.

_No rehab? No weepy intervention? No "Do it for Dad"? _

Dean clenched the keys to the Impala so tightly in his palm, Sam was afraid he'd cut himself.

"You heard me. We can talk later, but all I'm gonna say is that for now you gotta keep your shit together. We've got work to do."

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry, I couldn't resist...  
(and thanks for the feedback/follows/favorites! I love to hear what you think.)


	5. Chapter 5

The interior of the Impala was even more cramped than Sam remembered it, though at least now he got to sit in the front seat. Dean was a silent, brooding shape next to him, immediately turning up the radio so as to discourage talking.

_As if I'd want to. I'm not Mr. Caring and Sharing anymore, in case you haven't noticed. _

Still, the miles wore on and the silence stretched between them, longer than the achingly flat fields that spread out past the horizon. A sea of silence, bolstered by rolling waves of wheat and Baby's hypnotic thrum.

Sam's hand went from a tight, defensive fist at his side, to cautiously stretched out on his knee, to eye level, examining his fingernails. Finally, he broke.

"So, uhh no tongue-lashing?"

"What do you want me to say, Sammy?" Dean spread his arms wide, leaving Sam to keep a nervous eye on the steering wheel. "That you fucked up? Just look at yourself, you should know that already."

Sam's gaze flicked involuntarily to the rearview mirror. Shaggy, unwashed hair, yellowing skin.

_I didn't ask you to save me. _

"Let me out here. Side of the road is fine." His voice didn't betray the wobble he felt.

Dean blew a long breath out his nose. "I have half a mind to. Hell, I can't force you to stay, but… we're all that's left, y'know?" He was wearing that half-manic grin that never reached his eyes, the one he used like a trap; bundles of branches and leaves covering a deep, dark hole.

"The last of the Winchester dynasty," he murmured sarcastically to himself.

_How long was he off on his own before dad died? Let's see, it was at least a few weeks before he came and got me at Stanford… _

Sam felt regret creep up the back of his throat.

_Maybe if you weren't such a useless fuck-up you could've found him together. But no, little baby over here ran off crying after his girlfriend died. Couldn't even manage to help your own brother. _

"I'll stay," He whispered, his mouth full of sand. _But for how long?_

Dean swallowed hard. "And I'll try to set things straight again, okay Sammy?"

Sam nodded mechanically as he felt sweat begin to soak his collar. The Master was already tugging petulantly on his strings, demanding oblivion.

* * *

Dean mercifully pulled into B&B off the highway about forty minutes later.

"I'm gonna go grab some chow at the gas station… You want anything?" He asked after a slightly awkward pause.

Sam shook his head, his stomach turning over unpleasantly.

"Yeah, maybe you should go lie down. Can you check us in and everything?"

"Sure." _If I can stand up. _

Dean didn't quite smile, but the edges of his mouth tugged upwards. "Great. I'll uh, try to get some over the counter stuff for you and, what was it that guy in Trainspotting said? 'Cream of mushroom soup for consumption cold' or some shit."

Sam groaned and pressed his head against the cool glass of the window. If his stomach wasn't rolling like a storm at sea, he might have laughed. Instead he raised a shaky middle finger at his brother.

By the time he'd gotten the bags out of the trunk, waves of panic were starting to crash against his skull.

_How long has it been since the motel? If I don't get a hit soon, I'll be crawling out of my skin. _

He'd heard stories, whispered in dives and on dark street corners, of junkies who'd tried to quit cold turkey. How they'd frothed at the mouth, bucking hopelessly against a threadbare mattress, convulsions shaking them to the core. The stories always ended one of two places: the hospital or the morgue.

_But my habit's not that bad. I haven't been shooting up for years 'til my veins are shot to shit. Plus I'm used to coming down from all sorts of creature bites, weird-ass potions, and supernatural venom. It's gonna suck, but I can handle myself. Besides, I only need to dry out long enough to hunt the thing, right?_

His gut growled fiercely in protest. Dean's duffle couldn't have weighed more than thirty pounds, but Sam could hardly lift it. He tried not to ponder how scrawny his arms had gotten; glad they were encased in a hoodie where his brother couldn't scrutinize the bruises and sharp, jutting bone.

The motel manager's brow knitted close when she saw him, lips puckering in displeasure. Sam tried to look less hollow-eyed, though it felt like his skin was beginning to stretch and distort like a face drawn on a rubber glove, then inflated.

_Dean used to do that whenever I had to go to the doctor. He'd give them names, and they'd talk to me, tell me I shouldn't be scared. _

The thought was so incongruous, he jumped when the lady handed him the keys, pinched between thumb and forefinger to prevent their hands from brushing.

"Down the hall on your left."

Sam barely managed to nod in acknowledgement. The world was elongating, billowing in dizzy ribbons, and if he opened his mouth, he would surely be sick. The key skittered cruelly away from the lock, forcing Sam to use both hands to steady himself.

He fell into the room with a long breath that tasted of the stale air inside the Impala. The bags fell unheeded with a muffled thump. Two steps to the bathroom, retching thin, yellow bile into the sink. He couldn't remember the last full meal he had.

Sam listened to the hum of the lightbulb above the mirror, strategically placed to lengthen the shadows under his eyes, highlight his protruding cheekbones. He's four shades too pale; a corpse with peeling lips and sour breath.

The droning had wormed its way into his head, sat buzzing in his temples, the vibrations splitting atoms down his spine. The world flickered in and out epileptically, and Sam couldn't determine if that resulted from a defect in the wiring, or one within his own chemistry. He stayed there, hunched over, heaving, for what felt like hours; until a cool hand on the back of his neck guided him back to bed.

The man in the mirror only shook his head sadly.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **So far this fic has been like 85% Sam whump, hope that's cool with you guys. I SWEAR there's a plot in here!

* * *

He wished he could just black out. Every minute passed in agonizing slowness; time dripping by like water from the leaky faucet in the bathroom that was driving him slowly mad. Another drop splashed into the sink. An explosion.

Had it been hot a minute ago? Sam's t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, but he felt himself shiver. Teeth clacking together, castanets beating out the rhythm of withdrawal.

Dean flickered on the edge of his peripheral vision; a phantom bearing soup and warm washcloths for the back of his neck. He spoke, occasionally, but Sam's brain was too busy misfiring to understand. Shooting off signals into nothingness. His leg cramped fiercely again.

He was vaguely aware of the taste of stomach acid on his tongue, the way his hair hung limp and full of grease around his face. To stand in the shower would require superhuman strength.

His stomach clenched once more, and his breath hiccoughed in his chest as the pain tore through his gut. Sam wasn't quite sure where the line lay between consciousness and sleep. His dreams were confusing vignettes in which he'd reach out for Dean's hand only to rip his arm off, or find himself staring at his own face in the mirror, yellow eyes staring back.

His hands were bloody. Shards poked from his knuckles, forming a curious sculpture of flesh and glass. Dean was shaking his shoulders, cursing, but Sam heard his voice say, "It's alright, I've got him now. It's over."

He vaguely remembered the bite of alcohol on his fist, stitches. Dean didn't leave him alone after that. Not until two days later when the junkie fever-hold finally broke.

* * *

The motel room looked like the scene of an unspeakably violent crime. Sheets were twisted up in a pile in the corner, stained with sweat and various other bodily fluids. The mirror hung at a crooked angle, the glass spiderwebbed with cracks. A trail of dried blood snaked across the floor to the kitchen table. There it pooled next to a grubby bottle of Jack and a small kit full of gauze and catgut.

Dean surveyed the scene and shook his head forlornly.

"We're never getting that deposit back."

Sam responded with a small sigh of bliss. He never realized how great crackers were. Light, flaky, with a delicious buttery aftertaste that practically melted into his tongue.

"Looks like you got your appetite back," Dean smirked as Sam swallowed another handful.

"Bite me," he mumbled around a full mouth.

"You're the one who's doing the biting," Dean shot back.

They stared at each other for a moment.

_It's so easy, falling back into our old patterns. Like I never ran away. Like Dad'll appear around the corner, still wet from the shower and hollering that we've got to get a move on. _

But instead of fondness, Sam felt like he was being pulled inexorably in two directions.

_If I stay, I'll have to be clean. I'll have to jump right back into that life that I've been running from for so long. Hell, I threw myself into the drugs in the first place because that was the only other distraction I could find after a sleepless week wandering the streets of Paulo Alto, seeing her face on the ceiling every time I closed my eyes…_

Dean cleared his throat, making a little impatient waving motion with his hand to bring Sam back down to Earth.

"So, uhh didn't have much time for research while you were out, but I figure your super geek brain'll catch up soon enough. What I've found out so far is that it IS possible to track this fucker. Tough, but not impossible- very specific omens, only they're the blink-and-you'll-miss-'em kind. What I want you to do is-"

"Aren't we gonna talk about this?" Sam blurted out.

Dean blinked in a slow owlish fashion. "About what?"

"The plan? Don't I get a say in this too?" _Because you're sounding an awful lot like Dad. _

His brother must have caught the undercurrent in his tone because he bristled.

"Hey, I've been working on solution for months now, okay?"

"Fine, fine. Only I still don't why you need me around, in that case."

His brother stared at him like he'd suggested they ditch the Impala for something some safe and sensible, like a minivan.

"What planet did you beam down from? We've always been stronger as a team. Besides, this demon killed mom, Dad, _and_ Jessica. The Sam I knew woulda been pissed as hell."

_And would that Sam have started shooting smack? I think he died the moment the needle pierced my skin. Don't compare us._

"So, revenge then? Kill the demon that got Dad and then go our separate ways? Is that supposed to fix something?" Sam felt heat rise in his cheeks.

"Yeah, cuz you know what? We're gonna get this mess cleaned up. Set things right. After that you can do whatever you want, I don't care," Dean muttered half to himself. "Though I don't get why you've got your panties in a twist about hunting together again."

"I'm not a hunter anymore!" Fury burst from him like a punch. "Hell, it's almost been a year since… We saw each other last. I'm a different person now, and you just can't accept that. I'm not that scared little kid who follows you around anymore. I don't need you to be my security blanket."

Sam had his hand on the doorknob when he heard his brother speak.

"Is heroin doing a better job of that?"

"Fuck you."

He slammed the door shut with enough force to rattle the windows. For one eerie moment, he was transported back to the night he left for Stanford; duffle bag in hand, backpack digging into his shoulders, which were shaking from both the adrenaline of the fight and the exaltation of finally being free.

Only this time he was empty. Hands shaking because they desired a hit even more than they craved holding Jessica again. That's all Sam ever felt anymore. _Want_ and _Need. _

He slumped down against the door with a soft thump, drawing his knees up towards his chest. The night sky was clear, with stars winking down at the sorry scene below. Sam's heart expanded in his chest, like he was teetering on the edge of a step; one wrong move could send him crashing down the stairs.

The stitches on his knuckles itched with a sudden fierceness. Sam brought the white cocoon of a bandage up to his face; as if he the future was tucked in amongst the folds of gauze.

_Dean did this for me. _

A simple thought that quickly grew into a knotty oak with branches twisting in all directions. Each one ended in an act of protection, some big, some small.

_Just like he held my hand on the first day of school, showed me how to pack salt rounds, covered for me when I went to take the SATs instead of researching a hunt…_

_What did he ask for in return?_

His question was answered when Dean nudged the door open with the toe of his boot, and handed him a beer through the crack.

"I noticed you haven't run off yet, so… Truce?"

Sam scooted aside to allow Dean to sit next to him.

"Sorry," he muttered, both to his brother and the Master inside his head, who was already becoming bored with sobriety.

"We've both been through a lotta shit this year. And it's probably all uphill from here but," Dean swallowed, "I'm glad your cranky ass is along for the ride again."

They sipped their drinks in pensive silence, letting the moonlight encapsulate the scene; two men on a beat-up stoop, surrounded by cigarette butts and a half-empty parking lot.

_I'm gonna stick with this charade as long as I can. I owe him that much. _


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Sorry for the late update! I'm currently making the mistake of writing three fics at once as well as planning for NaNoWriMo, so please forgive me if my posts become a bit more erratic.  
That being said, if you like Attack on Titan as well as Supernatural, I post those fics over on AO3 if you want to check me out ;D (stripeypirate- my catchall sn)

As always, thanks for reading (especially you Guest Reviewers, to whom I cannot reply)!

* * *

Three days later, they still hadn't made any progress whatsoever in terms of locating the demon. Three long days, and three even longer nights spend hunched over books until they couldn't see around the grit in their eyes. A stagnant, sour cloud gathered in the motel room; a build-up of frustrated sighs and slammed doors.

After so long on his own, Sam was compressed. Dean, it seemed, was always lurking over his shoulder, blowing coffee breath down his neck, or otherwise encroaching on his space. Dirty dishes left in the sink, rumpled bedsheets, even shoes throw carelessly in the middle of the floor felt like personal insults. The walls were starting to shrink, and Sam was pretty sure he would start throwing punches if he didn't get some fresh air.

Since he couldn't get high, Sam decided to get roaring drunk instead. He could feel Dean's eyes boring into him as he left the motel, stomping down a few blocks, waiting for the night air to cool his head.

_I swear to God, he thinks he's my mother._

The bar was decent for once; wood paneling and a working jukebox at least. Sam elbowed his way through the growing crowd to order a whisky on the rocks, searching out a relatively secluded corner from which he could watch a group playing pool underneath a giant stuffed deer head.

The drink burned hot down his throat, but it lacked the dizzy euphoria Sam desperately craved.

_Might as well be drinking water. _

He ordered another two and downed them in quick succession. A slight, fuzzy lightheadedness, but that was all.

_I wanna feel like I'm sinking into the floor and blasting through the stratosphere at the same time. I just want one more taste, a goodbye hit, something to sing me to sleep, yeah. _

Another whisky.

_There's no spark anymore. Everything's dull, dull, dull. What's the point if I'm just going to slog through life miserable all the time? _

He toyed with his glass, swirling his finger around the outside of the rim. It was getting steadily warmer in the small space as the press of bodies increased, ambient chatter swelling to a dull roar as cheery, reddened faces swirled past in a forgettable collage.

_Demons this, evil that. Is the fight ever really over?_

He realized he could picture Dean in a dingy, oil-splattered, muscle-t sweating underneath a car all day, having a cold beer with dinner on the porch.

_But what about me?_

Just a blank empty space. Suddenly Sam felt irrevocably stained by his experiences; like the loss and the drugs had fused together to create a black hole that had swallowed him entirely.

_Even though I'm clean, I'll never be CLEAN clean- always got blood on my hands. _

He was setting his glass down again. Had he ordered another drink? With a sigh, Sam closed his eyes and slowly massaged his temples. Nope, he was still here. Hadn't found a way to obliterate his consciousness, lose himself in the feeling that he was cradled in a great, safe, hand.

"Alright Sasquatch, you ready to come home, or are you gonna wring out 'last call' to the very last drop?" Dean materialized next to him, a half-smile on his lips but concern in his eyes.

Sam squinted at him blurrily.

"'M not mad at you."

"Good to know."

"It's like… We're wearing blindfolds but we're still walkin' around so we bump into shit and it's not really our fault but we don't wanna take off the blindfold cuz then we'll see how shitty everything is."

"I forgot you wax poetic when you're smashed. Can't believe I almost missed it. Alright, time to stand up. C'mon."

Sam felt the world tilt sideways as Dean hoisted him up under his armpits. His face pressed into Dean's jacket and he could smell the familiar scent of motor oil mixed with sweat, salt, and leather.

"Dude, you should wash this thing," he mumbled.

His brother smacked him affectionately on the back of the head.

"When was the last time you took a shower, Sammy?"

He was seriously pondering this question; his brain clumsy from the alcohol, like numb hands trying to grasp a small object, when he saw a face he recognized.

Just for a second, he stood out in the crowd- a beacon of familiarity that shone like a lighthouse in a sea of strange faces swirling kaleidoscopically in from of him. The bartender from the last town. The one who'd hooked him up with a dealer.

_Sal? Saul?_

He caught Sam's eye and smiled.

"D'n look-" he tried to say, but then he was lost in the crush of people.

* * *

Minutes later, the Impala's engine was humming a comforting lullaby underneath him. Slowly he let his eyes drift shut, the radio turned down low for once; just loud enough to cover Dean's tuneless singing.

_I wonder what he was doing way over here… Ha maybe I'm just an excellent customer. Or he's moving up in the world of bartenders. Looking for a place where the waitresses wear clothes. _

Sam felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. He jerked up with a gasp, causing Dean's head to whip around in concern. He pulled over in a screech of tires.

"Don't you dare puke in here."

Sam ignored him. There was only one question pounding through his brain, lit up like a thousand neon lights.

_Oh God, why didn't I see this before?_

He took a deep breath, swallowed hard.

"Dean, we hauled ass out of the hospital. I don't know how long I was out of it but, you never solved that case in the last town, did you?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **I have decided that the remainder of this story, in it's entirety, will probably work best as a series in the same 'verse due to the scope of the thing. As a result, I've ended on a rather ambiguous, but (hopefully) satisfying note. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

* * *

"Alright, start from the beginning."

The brothers sat across from each other at the cramped dinette table. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to stave off the headache he felt beginning to buzz behind his eyes. Daylight was just starting to fade, spilling golden shafts onto the carpet through the slats in the blinds.

Dean rested his forearms on the cracked Formica and blew out a long breath.

"Well I was wanderin' around looking for leads- you, dad, the demon, SOMETHING, when I came across a case in the local paper. Buncha old ladies getting' ganked; pretty gory stuff, too. The fuzz was practically creaming their pants cuz of course they thought they had the next small-town serial killer on their hands. Honest to God, they were like dogs eying a steak. Could see the book deals already."

Sam gave him a weak smile of acknowledgement, a weary sickness in his bones at the familiarity.

_People don't do this. They don't sit around motel rooms talking casually about murder and police investigations. They don't recognize the difference between a sensational news story and real danger breathing down the backs of their necks. _

"Anyway, I did a lil research- yeah, yeah, don't look so surprised- and sure enough, these killings tend to happen around the full moon."

"So you think Saul's a werewolf?" A nauseating little flip of his stomach as he felt his heart speed up.

_I'm not excited. _

Dean rolled his eyes. "What I think is that you were wasted last night, you saw some dude who maybe triggered somethin' in that head of yours, and now you're jumping to conclusions."

"I know what I saw."

"Okay, okay," he spread his arms wide, indulgent. "Say that dude really was there. Any particular reason you think he's quit mauling old ladies and decided to chase after you?"

"He could've caught our scents, figured out we were hunting him!" Sam was getting defensive. _Why won't you take me seriously?_

"So he hangs out with you at the bar?"

"You know, I'm getting real sick of you patronizing me, Dean. I was drunk, alone. A better target until you showed up."

"Alright, you've convinced me," his brother said in the tone he used when he was tired and just wanted to stop arguing, but wasn't willing to concede his point. "We'll check it out in the morning."

"Fine," Sam gritted his teeth. It seemed that with every passing moment he could hear the grains of sand fall to the bottom of the hourglass.

Dean stood up, flicking off the lights on his way to the bedroom.

"I dunno about you, Samantha, but I'm gonna find a nice western to watch on TV and maybe even order a pizza. You're welcome to join 's long as I get to pick the channel."

Sam didn't answer. He sat alone as darkness slowly enroached on the room, blood pounding in his ears. Invisible ants crawled up and down his legs. He had to do _something. _

* * *

Sam let his head loll back as he entered the motel. He'd never realized how wonderful the patch of mold over the doorframe was; how nicely it complemented the carpet, how smooth the edges were. A sign that the universe was perfectly aligned.

Dean was hunched over some books at what passed for a kitchen table, a yellowing scrap of parchment dangling loosely from one hand.

Sam decided to grace his brother with a languid wave.

"Are you high?" Dean set down the paper with a decisive _smack_ and leaned forward, as if he could somehow smell it on him.

_As a kite, motherfucker. _

"Seriously?" He molded his face into a look of injured innocence. His muscles were made of warm clay. "After all we've been through to get this far? Thought I'd do some…" he searched for the word, "investigating. On my own. Last night."

"Bullshit. Lemme see you walk in a straight line."

"What if I told you Saul wasn't a werewolf?" Sam leaned against the stove for support.

"Oh I see, he's your fucking dealer, is that it?" Dean roared. The chair flew backwards and in an instant he was in front of Sam, hand fisted around his collar.

"He followed you here because you were a paying customer! God, I'm an idiot," He barked out a laugh. "I can't believe I thought I could trust you. Made up some stupid story about a hunt just to put me off your trail. Tying it back in with the last case was a nice touch though. Convincing." He jabbed a finger into Sam's chest, which caused him to rock back against the stovetop.

"Nono, Dean. Lemme 'splain," His tongue felt heavy, the words buzzing around his lips like lazy bees. The evening's events were congealing in his memory. A knife in his hands. The need to lash out; to cut away at whatever stood in his path.

_But all I really wanted was a hit. It was so simple…_

Saul hadn't flinched at the silver point pressed into his back in the alley behind the bar. Only a hiss when Sam dragged the tip across his skin, blood blooming though the tear in his shirt, but no steam or howling.

_Human. A disappointment. _

"Hey kid, I can help you out, just let me go, please…"

_Help me?_

"I g-got good stuff. I remember you, from the truckstop, yeah? You like a lil' smack? I have that. Free of charge."

The realization had hit Sam like a punch to the gut. In fact, his stomach tightened at the prospect; a shiver that continued all the way down until his toes curled.

He'd swallowed heavily; suddenly aware that he was salivating at the thought.

_This'll be the last one… A final farewell. _

"You know what, Sam? I don't want to hear your excuses anymore. You fucked up, plain and simple." Dean's voice cut through the haze in his head.

"'M sorr-"

"Do you even want to get better? Cuz from here it doesn't look like you're trying too hard."

Sam swayed back on his heels, as if Dean's words had physically struck him. The drugs blunted the emotional impact, but he still managed to feel vaguely stung.

_Who was it who dragged me through the mud to get sober? Oh, that's right. Sure as hell wasn't me. Maybe ya shoulda left me in my little junkie paradise. _

His tongue couldn't quite seem to wrap around all of that, so he shrugged instead.

Dean's jaw tightened.

"Alright, c'mon we're getting in the car." He snatched a dirty t-shirt off the floor, and in a sudden burst of violent, manic energy, strode over and yanked his bag out from underneath the bed.

"What?" The world was still soft around the edges, dreamlike. Same felt as if he were watching his brother through a thick layer of cellophane.

"Get in the car," Dean repeated, dumping out the contents of the dresser drawer with a flourish. "Time for a change of scenery." He gave Sam a level stare. "I'll be sure to cover our tracks this time."

_New town, new start. Cover last night's sins with a different horizon. Sound familiar?_

"What if it doesn't work?"

_This is me giving up. It's too hard. You can dangle Dad or Revenge in front of me all you want, but nothing can compare anymore. I need a different kind of rush now._

"It will." His voice rang with chilling certainty as Dean ran his fingers along the knife that he was in the process of sheathing.

Sam was too tired to argue ethics anymore; how Saul was a bad person, yes, but not a monster. How Sam could easily be in his shoes had he enough self-control to save a hit or two from each of his own purchases to sell. How Dean didn't deserve to take a fall for him.

_He still believes in me. Or at least in the bullshit person I used to be. _

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, chewing on the sentences. The roar of the high was beginning to slide into a sickening fatigue.

_I can at least sleep in the Impala…_

Dean tossed a duffel in his general direction, which Sam promptly fumbled; his hands stiff and clumsy as blocks of wood. Together they stumbled out under a sky that was just beginning to streak through with pink. Dean turned the key in the ignition and was rewarded with a satisfying growl. He cast one long, shadowed look at his little brother; sprawled bonelessly in the passenger seat, mouth open like he was a little kid. The vivid purple bruises and half-crusted scabs on his arms told another story.

Two men watched as the black car took off chasing the sunrise.

"I still don't see what this has got to do with anything," Saul grumbled under his breath.

"The Righteous Man is close to breaking under the strain," the taller one responded. He pulled the collar of his coat closer against the early-morning chill. "The younger brother reaching out to fill that _craving_ he's had ever since he was a child. He doesn't know what it is yet, but all in good time, eh?"

Saul laughed humorlessly, his eyes flicking to black.

"You've done your job well," His boss continued, reaching out with to lay a tender hand on Saul's head, "I know I promised you a promotion after this, but I'm afraid I have one more task for you. Trust me when I say it'll be even easier than the first."

Before Saul could respond, the man slashed his throat with superhuman speed. He cradled the body carefully, lowering it to the ground behind the motel's dumpster. With a slight flourish, he produced a thin, glass vial from his coat pocket, which he held under the spurting stream of blood.

"One misguided, the other hopeless, both desperate. We've got the Winchesters right where we need them, Father," He murmured, casting sickly yellow eyes down to the ground.

**The End  
(or is it?)**


End file.
